


Man of the House

by literatelamb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, F/M, Horror, Mystery, Nudity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Thriller, Violence, eventual asphyxiation, ghost! Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literatelamb/pseuds/literatelamb
Summary: “Tell me dear, do you believe in ghosts?”“Can’t say I do.”A new house, a new area, not particularly a new start. The white Gothic house has history that you couldn’t be bothered with. Only what if there’s more to the white house than you or others knew?
Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader, Sam Wilson/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue

When people think of Fall, they can’t help but attribute it to the crispy coldness, the yellowing of leaves, or children in pumpkin patches. Young adults would probably think of the pumpkin spice lattes from cafes, or for the fans of the occult, All Hallow’s Eve’s approach comes to the mind. Just like the changing of leaves, for you, Fall reminds you of new beginnings. A fresh start.

The autumn wind chills as you huddled closer in your coat, trying to retain warmth. Your old car —a Studebaker Lark ‘63— parked on the curb of the road as you approached the house. 

Ahead over you, in its Gothic Revival glory, sat a white wooden house. The drab grey sky made it seem more imposing in stature.

The roof was a contrasting grey, steeply pitched with an arched gable. Delicate wooden trims decorated the front; nothing intricate but a simple design. Dirty windows entered your peripheral, the accumulated dust blurring them.

Taking everything in, the house seemed well-maintained, but the chipping of paint reminded you of its age. 

Nevertheless, for a structure of such grandeur, it was astonishingly inexpensive. After hours of pouring over internet searches, you couldn’t believe your eyes when you stumbled upon it. 

The house was a classic; with its architecture and size, you deemed it _perfect_. Located in a quieter part of Maryland, bordering DC; not too far from your place of employment, but far from the cacophonies of the city.

This, you considered, was your fresh start.

Standing near the driveway was a greying gentleman; grey hair perfectly coiffed, crow’s feet in the corners of twinkling blue eyes. You assumed he’s in his 60’s or 70’s. He greeted you, his weathered face smiling, with a walking stick in hand, although he still seemed strong for his age.

“Good day, Mr Rogers,” you smiled, shaking his offered hand. “Thank you for meeting me today.”

“It’s a pleasure, dear,” he replied. “Let’s go in, shall we?” 

Stepping onto the porch, you observed your surroundings. The rustling of trees by the wind was the most prominent of sound, if anything else, it was dead quiet. You could see other houses scattered in the distance, however no immediate neighbours were within vicinity. 

The click of the front door unlocking pulled you. The inside was dark, the dusty windows permitting little light, while the floor was covered by a thin layer of dust.

Mr Rogers walked in first, pushing the door and held it open for you. You thanked him, pleased with his gentlemanly ways.

A hiss left you at the sudden switching of lights, attacking your eyes as they readjusted. You blinked a few times to take in the interior. 

The hallway was long; cream coloured wallpaper hugged its sides, ending to a larger room in the distance. The walls were bare except for a few random antique mirrors. To your left, a stairway sits. It contrasts the walls; a rich, sturdy, mahogany. To your right, an entrance way opens up; silhouettes standing in the dim shadows.

“I apologize, it’s a bit dusty,” said Mr Rogers, sheepishly. “I try to clean it up at least once a month.”

“By yourself?” you ask, bewildered.

He chuckled, “No, with a cleaning company, dear.”

Telling you to follow him, Mr Rogers stepped into the entryway to your right, switching the lights on.

The silhouettes you saw earlier were of the furniture strewn about; chesterfield sofas, armchairs, and antique floor lamps crowding the room. A fireplace stood near another entrance, a large mirror erected over its mantle, reflecting the rays from the porch windows. It looked like a scene out of those classic films you used to love. If tidied properly, this would be the best reading spot, you thought.

“This is the parlour,” he announced, “Great for having guests over.”

“It’s beautiful,” you beamed. 

Moving forward, Mr Rogers walked through the other entryway, leading to a dining room. From your vantage point, you could see this is the room the hallway ends up to. 

Smacked in the middle, a sleek white marble dining table sits. Its length stretches across the room, sets of dining chairs accommodating tens of people. It looked ideal for hosting dinner parties. 

The dining room was connected to the kitchen in the back, easing the transferring of food. When you stepped foot into the kitchen, you didn’t expect it to be extravagantly spacious. You smiled, envisioning yourself cooking meals in this kitchen.

“There are a few pots and pans under the cupboards if you ever want to use ‘em,” the older man says. “They were my wife’s” 

Curious, you pressed, “Your wife, sir?”

“Yep, my wife, Peggy,” he smiled, eyes distant, lost in a different time, “Actually, she was the one who owned this house, or atleast, her family did. I inherited it after she passed away, felt it was too big to live by myself ya know?”

You hummed in understanding. He must have lived a fulfilling life with his wife, judging by the look. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it, composed himself, and marched on.

“This here leads to the back of the house,” he gestured to a door, the upper half a transparent window. You could see tall blades of grass and the dense trees swaying out back, reacting to the wind. “And this one’s the laundry room, the bathroom’s next to it,” he continued, opening a second door in the kitchen.

You both left the kitchen, entering the hallway through the dining room. As you passed, you noticed a set of stairs obscured under the main staircase. It was smaller, leading down under, ending where a thick black door stood in slight darkness.

“Uhm, Mr Rogers?” you asked, pausing. “What’s that room?”

The older man stopped, turning to look back.

“Oh, that’s the basement. Nothing exciting down there though, just a furnace and some tools. I’ll show you soon,” he seemed to ramble, before turning his back quickly. Without waiting for you, he started climbing the stairs, slowly, hand gripping the railings tightly, walking stick in the other.

That prompted an eyebrow raise from you, he almost seemed flustered. Shrugging it off, you followed.

“So, tell me, dear,” he started, “What brings you searching for a house in this area? It’s not exactly the most happening of places for youngsters.”

The question surprised you. Usually most landlords don’t bother to know such, especially of potential tenants. Their only concern being prompt payments, or you’re out.

“Um, I’m a vet, and I actually work closer here than if I live in the city,” you replied, “Plus, it beats the DC traffic.” Which was true, harrowing through traffic everyday was exhausting.

Mr Rogers chuckled in response.

The second floor was the same layout as the floor below; a long hallway with doors. You noticed there were even more mirrors on this floor. Come to think of it, there were mirrors in _every_ room you’ve been in so far.

“There are three bedrooms and a bathroom on this floor,” —the man explains, opening a door— “And this is the master bedroom.”

It was spacious and regal, light blue walls with dark furniture occupied the room; a king-sized four poster, a vanity, and a large wardrobe stood next to a closet. On the furthest side, two stained glass doors stood, leading to a balcony overlooking the front yard. The colours from the glass reflected on the walls, giving allusions to crystalline shapes. You imagined how they’d reflect during sunset. It was perfect.

The tour commenced with Mr Rogers showing the other two bedrooms and bathroom. At the end of the hall, he led you to a wooden ladder that stood connected to a latch door in the ceiling. 

“That’s the attic, nothing much but dust and some old furniture,” he pointed, “You can take a look at ‘em and see if they’re to your liking when you decide to move in.”

Heading down the stairs, the basement was the last place on the tour.

“So, how are you liking the place so far?” he asks, walking beside you.

Biting your lip, you chose your words carefully. “It’s beautiful, the furniture, the decor, and such big space as well,” you said, “Although I’m surprised that I’ll be getting all of this, especially with the price.” 

The elder man picked up on your apprehension, “Ah, about that, I’ll discuss the details with you after we finish.” He took the lead, pushing the thick black door with his body. He was stronger than you expected. 

A sense of foreboding was felt at first as the door creaked. After going further down the steps, it wasn’t as dark as you expected. Minimal light shone in through small windows on the upper walls, the glass separating the two worlds.

The dangling chain on the ceiling was pulled, flooding the space in light. Adjusting to the brightness, you could see it was dustier in the basement. Cobwebs hung in corners, entangling corpses with them. Thick dust covered the surface of shelves, as if a blizzard invaded. An even thicker silence settled, deafening to the core.

“Don’t you worry about that thing,” the man’s voice echoed, pointing to a furnace in the back, “Got that serviced this year, if anything happens just let me know.” Turning to the shelves, he seemed to inspect them for a few moments, eyes squinting. “And there’s a lot of tool boxes in here,” he gestured to the heavy shelves, pushed to the walls, “Feel free to use ‘em.”

Not wasting any time, Mr Rogers turned back towards the stairs. You followed suit, pulling the chain, basking the basement in darkness once more. 

As you began to ascend, a sudden strong scent invaded your nostrils, wafting through like an uninvited guest. You gave another whiff. A musky scent, wild, and smoky, further reminding you of Fall. 

Casting one last glance into the darkness, you shrugged it off, and closed the door. Must’ve been Mr Rogers’ faint cologne.

—------------—

You observed the state of the porch as Mr Rogers locked the front door. The porch needed sweeping, you noted, stepping on a sea of dead leaves, their crunching audible.

Overlooking the lawn, you noticed a pair of blue eyes at the edge of the porch. A pair of white fluffy ears accompanied, flickering occasionally. You smiled, it seemed like you had a visitor.

Squatting down on the steps of the porch, you chittered, hoping to catch its attention. After a few seconds, a white blur zoomed in, scurrying then stopping abruptly at your feet. It mewled, wide blue eyes staring, demanding attention. You petted and scratched below its jaw, the creature emitting content purrs. 

“Looks like she’s taken a liking to you,” voices Mr Rogers from behind, “She’s a stray, always coming ‘round.”

“I’m surprised, she’s very friendly,” you said, petting snowy fur.

Seconds pass, the cat’s purr the only sound. 

“I’m sure you’ve been wondering regarding the rent,” he breaks the silence, taking a seat on the porch steps. “Why it’s so… well, cheap, for a fully furnished house like this.”

“Well… yeah, I actually almost thought it was a scam,” you replied, sheepish. “I had to actually see it for myself.”

The older gentleman laughed, “I don’t blame you, it sounds too good to be true.”

And indeed, it was. For a classic house like this, dating probably a century back, _and_ fully furnished, something must be up. It was too good of a good bargain.

“Actually, there’s a reason why I put it that way,” he admits after a few beats. “Tell me, do you believe in ghosts, dear?” 

You frowned, wondering where he’s going with this, “Can’t say I do.”

“Let me guess, atheist?” 

“Agnostic.”

He smiles mirthlessly, “Well, I can’t say I believe in them either, but for the past years, I’ve been having trouble getting tenants to stay.” That piqued your curiosity.

“What do you mean, sir?” you pressed, intrigued.

“Past tenants have told me they’ve been… spooked while living in the house, like things disappearing and reappearing, or hearing footsteps and what not,” the man explains, “But I can’t say it’s true since it’s all peaceful whenever I stay here, or check up on maintenance. I’ve even had a friend stay here for a week, and nothing!"

Ah, the classic household haunting you’ve always seen in movies; missing items, heavy footsteps, the feeling of being watched. Sitting on the steps, you felt like a walking cliché; the stupid girl who goes into a large house knowing it’s haunted, wanting a taste of thrill. Yet, you can’t be bothered. You’ve always been a skeptic, a believer that science and logic can debunk these things.

“What I wanted to ask you is, would you still want to move here after all I’ve told you?” the older man asked. “I’d understand if you want to back out.”

His question shows how concerned he is about others, even if it’ll put a damper in his business. You felt lucky to have stumbled upon an honest and understanding landlord, not everyone had that privilege. But something felt off.

“I don’t understand, while I appreciate it, why do you need to disclose this, sir?” you ask, weirded out. “Isn’t it buyers beware?”

“It’s a part of the law to categorize it under ‘stigmatized’ property,” he replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if you didn’t know,” he chuckled, you joined him. “So, what about it, dear?”

Stroking the cat, you thought about it. You were never a believer of ghouls nor _other_ other-worldly beings, and you weren’t going to start now. While the presence of ghosts could never be proven or denied, you believed that every occurrence has a logical explanation, even the paranormal. You weren’t about to let go of a wonderful place just because some ghost decided to move in as well. Stigmatized or not, you’ve found yourself a good deal. The perfect start.

“Don’t worry Mr Rogers, ghosts or no, nothing's gonna stop me from living in this house,” you smiled. He returned it.

Later, after much discussion and the exchange of handshakes, you left the house with a sense of relief. Pulling out of the driveway, you waved to the older gentleman, before speeding off.

A few metres ahead, checking in the rearview mirror, you saw Mr Rogers still standing in the driveway. 

His smile never faltered.

—------------—

The next day finds you working endlessly at the clinic, meeting furry patients left and right, tending to their dilemmas. The clinic was almost never vacant, the seats occupied always leaving behind fur. To you, it has always been a fulfilling job. Sometimes you’ll get scratched, or hissed at, but at the end of the day it was always worth the care.

Lunch came a bit later. Sighing, your shoulders relaxed. After attending to a cat that decided it needed to throw a hissy fit, you really needed a break. While shovelling food into your mouth, your phone suddenly rang; Sam Wilson flashing on the screen.

“Hi, baby,” you picked up.

“ _Hello, baby,_ ” came the sultry voice on the other end. “ _How’s my girl doin’?_ ”

“She’s doing fine, thank you for asking,” you teased. “Why’d you call? Did something happen?”

Muffled chuckles rang through the speakers, “ _No, nothing happened, just wanted to know how you’re doin’. Hey, how was the house? All good?_ ” 

“It was gorgeous! And fully-furnished too!” you replied, gleefully. “It was all antique, the master bedroom was my favourite,” and you continued telling him of everything, from the fancy parlour to the stained glass doors. Sam listened attentively, humming and responding at appropriate times. And this is why you loved him. He was always the talkative one out of you two, yet he never talked out of turn, always putting you first. “Oh, and I’ve found out why it’s so affordable.”

“ _Let me guess, someone died in that house?_ ” 

You chuckled, “ _Close_ , apparently it’s ‘haunted’, ooh,” you booed. “The landlord said he had never experienced it during all his years there, nor did his friend that apparently stayed there. So it makes you wonder, if it were just stories from people paranoid about living in an old house.”

“ _Sounds like it_ ,” Sam hummed. “ _Can’t wait to have sleepovers at your new place now._ ” 

You laughed, missing his dose of humour and his presence terribly. “I wished you were there with me.”

“I wished I had too, baby,” he murmured, “So when’s the moving date? Gotta put these bad boys into good use.” You heard him grunting, probably flexing his bicep from the other end. Sam’s antics always amused you. He was your happy pill.

“I told Mr Rogers —that’s the landlord— I’ll be moving in two weeks,” you explained. “Do you mind taking a day off to help me? Pretty please?”

“Anything for you, baby.” 


	2. Moving Day & The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day is finally here! Private and public celebrations are in order.

**Moving Day**

Boxes and boxes filled the hallway as men in uniforms brought them in, the moving truck parked in front of the house. The stench of sweat invaded your nostrils as you guided the men on which rooms to settle them. Sam was doing his fair share, gathering your more personal boxes upstairs.

It was moving day, finally.

After two weeks of preparing and prepping, you finally took the step into your new home. A day earlier found you busy with cleaning; sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping the windows, and dusting the furniture among others. You even took the time to pick up some ornaments to decorate your new house. The scented candles and key bowl looked great next to the antique lamp.

When all the boxes and furniture were settled, you paid the movers a hefty sum and left them on their way. Now that left you, Sam, and a load of boxes to be unpacked.

“I’ll start with the ones in the kitchen,” Sam said, “And then maybe we can have a quick lunch later.” You nodded, walking towards the parlour.

Seeing the clear windows elated you, free of dust and stains, permitting sunlight which illuminated the room in a warm glow. The velvety feel of the red Chesterfield sofa was satisfying, letting your mind wander to extravagant wine parties.

Riffling for the retractable knife in your pocket, you started slashing through the boxes, uncovering your book collection over the years. One by one, you arranged them on the pine wood bookshelf; a new addition brought from your previous dwelling. 

After the boxes were emptied, you stood and admired your work. The parlour would make a great room for reading, you could imagine relaxing with a glass of wine and a good book after a day's work.

_Ding dong!_

You swerved to face the hallway, startled. The ringing of the doorbell audibly loud, reverberating through the entire house. 

“Who is it?” Sam stood in the entryway, coming from the kitchen. You shrugged.

Entering the hallway, Sam opened the door, standing face to face with their visitor. On the other side stood Mr Rogers, his weathered face smiling. He looked pretty dapper for a man standing on your doorstep. In his hand, he seemed to be holding a small box. Of what, you’re unsure.

“Mr Rogers! Nice to see you,” you greeted. “What brings you here?”

“Hello, dear. Just wanted to drop off some extra keys I had since I don’t really need them,” he said, jiggling them into your hands. “Seems like you have a fella, he’ll probably need it.” Sam laughed, appreciating the humour.

“Sam Wilson, sir,” he introduced himself, offering a hand, “Nice to finally meet the man of the house.”

“Likewise, son,” Mr Rogers shook. He seemed to still for a moment before knocking out of it. “Before I forget, here’s some tea. A housewarming gift, if you will.” He handed you the small box, “It’s chamomile, good for aiding sleep.”

You were humbled by the kind gesture of the elder, thanking him. Before he could leave, Sam invited him in for lunch, “I was about to fix up something quick.”

“It’s okay, son. I have places to be and people to meet today, you two have a good day,” he bid farewell, got in his beetle, waving as he drove away.

“That's a _very_ thoughtful landlord right there,” Sam whistled. You agreed, reminded of how lucky you were, again. Sam closed the door, lulling the house in silence once more. “You hungry, baby?” 

“Not yet, really,” you turned to him. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’m currently hungry for something else,” he smirked, mischief swimming in his pools, “How about we christen the place, starting with,” —he startled you, lifting you by the hips— “the kitchen!” 

You chortled, as Sam carried you, hands supporting your buttocks, at the same time giving them a squeeze. The cheeky bastard.

Clothes were shed. Hands roamed, mapping every inch of uncovered skin. The exchange of fierce kisses and the battle of tongues left you both frenzied. 

Sam settled you on the island countertop. The cold granite chilled you. He marveled at your form, hungry eyes taking in everything; your stiff peaks, your mussed hair, your enticing throat.

“I’m _starving_ baby, let me taste you,” he husked, descending to his knees. Calloused hands pushed your thighs apart, serving you to his greedy eyes. True to his words, like a man starved, he helped himself. He was _ravenous_.

You cried, moans carrying through the halls, echoing. You had no care for the world.

The both of you continued your escapade, carrying to other parts of the house; unaware to the lone shadow. 

Watching your every move.

* * *

**Day One**

The entirety of yesterday was pure bliss as far as you remembered, waking up in bed to sunlight barely peeking through the glass door. Sam’s hand draped across your hip as he lightly snored behind you.

You sighed, feeling sated. What a way to start the morning.

Lazing for a bit, you admired your new bedroom. The once bare four-poster is now draped in delicate tulle, akin to a large veil. The vanity across the bed looked regal, adding to the opulence. This was by far your favourite room. Besides the parlour, of course.

You gave a kiss to Sam between the brows. Slowly slipping away, you got out of bed. Grabbing your robe, you padded across the hall and headed downstairs. 

The house was eerily silent in the mornings. Only the creaking of stairs audible as you descend. 

In the wee hours, the little sunlight and heavy curtains casted long shadows on the walls. The furniture in the dark stood, creating the illusion of people, making the parlour seem frightening to the average eye. The hallway seemed long and never-ending, getting darker the further it went.

The look of the house in the dark could have been what considered it so terrifying. The mind does tend to wander when in darkness.

Passing by the hallway, you setted on fixing breakfast in the kitchen. Before you could step a foot further, something _faint_ caught your ears. 

_Scrrrt. Scrrrt. Scrrrt._

It repeated. Again and again. Like nails on wood.

_Scrrrt. Scrrrt. Scrrrt._

You squinted, searching for the source. The low visibility was not helping. Fumbling the wall, you turned on the lights.

_Scrrrt. Scrrrt. Scrrrt._

Nothing was in your vicinity, yet the noise never ceased. Using your sense of hearing, you listened, tracing.

_Scrrrt! Scrrrt! Scrrrt!_

It became audibly louder and erratic as you neared. Your feet found you under the stairs. In front of the black door.

 _Scrrrt! Scrrrt! Scrrrt!_

Faster and faster. As if a desperate call for help.

Grabbing the nearest object —an _umbrella_ — you gripped it tight. The fear of it being a wild animal overcame you.

_Scrrrt! Scrrrt! Scrrrt!_

Slowly turning the knob, umbrella at the ready, you pushed the door, expecting to be pounced.

Instead, what greeted you was a white fluffy creature. A _cat_ . The same cat you met _weeks_ ago. Waiting on the steps, as if it were expecting your arrival.

“Now, how did you get in here,” you cooed, squatting. The cat murmured back. 

Up and down. Left to right. You tried theorising how the cat came to be in the basement. The door was closed, too heavy for a cat. The small windows were shut tight, only allowing light to pass through. The last one here yesterday was Sam, and he would’ve noticed a cat. Yet, it managed to sneak in. How peculiar.

“ _What are you doing down here_.”

You jumped, startled. Your heart almost gave out. Facing the door, Sam stood on the stairs, crusts still in his eyes.

“You startled me!” you grumbled. He put his palms up, wearing his toothy grin.

“I heard scratching sounds and found this cat,” you explained, “Which by the way, did you see yesterday?”

“I think I would’ve seen if there was a cat, but no,” he replied. “Is the little cutie hungry?” he cooed, in a babying tone.

Unexpected to the both of you, the cat hissed. Eyes turned into slits, fur standing, claws out, like a being possessed. You worried it might attack Sam. 

Before you could intervene, it sped off. Zooming between Sam’s legs, and headed upstairs, meowing uncontrollably.

“It’s never done that before,” you mumbled, surprised. “I’ll go let it out.” 

You followed upstairs, nearly missing the faint scent.

* * *

**Day Two**

Light chatter permeated the space as guests began filtering into the parlour. Wine glasses in hand, they mingled around, exchanging conversations, with the occasional boisterous laughter. It was a light and cozy setting, with every tummy sated, just catching up with long time friends.

“Okay, can I just say, that despite being a 100 year old monument, this place is actually nice?” Tony starts, “Like when I looked outside it was like something out of the Addam’s Family, but then I went in and wham! It’s like a cute lil’ antique store.”

Perplexed, you really didn’t know how to reply to that. “Err, thank you?” 

“Stop it, Tones, that wasn’t a compliment,” Rhodey slapped Tony’s back, “It’s a really nice house, very fancy.” 

“The house is lovely, I love the vintage feel of it,” Pepper piped up, shooting Tony a look.

You smiled, “Thank you guys, it’s been a dream to live in a house like this.” Just then, Sam came, curling an arm around your waist.

“And my girl here got it for a steal too,” Sam intervened, jovially. “I’m just the lucky guy who gets to stay over some nights.” 

You slapped Sam’s chest as he laughed, the trio joining. You reveled in the warmness of the moment, surrounded by friends. Sharing the start of a new beginning.

Everybody else in this room lived in the city, preferring the closeness to their work. You preferred the same. It’s been a long time since you all got together in the same space. You missed it.

After a few minutes of chatting, you excused yourself. A new bottle of wine and light dessert was needed. 

Passing through the dining room enroute to the kitchen, you saw Wanda at the end of the hall. She was standing stock-still, staring downwards. You walked closer. 

Stopping next to her, you saw that she was staring down at the entrance of the basement. Unmoving. 

“Um, Wanda, is there anything wrong?” you asked, confused.

That seemed to snap her out of her stupor. She looked at you, face impassive before giving a thin smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “Where does that lead to, by the way?”

“That’s the basement,” you replied. “Come on, do you want more wine? Dessert?”

“Dessert sounds nice.”

* * *

Arriving into the parlour, you brought out the mini pavlovas with Wanda and set them on the coffee table. The wine bottle was handed off to Sam as he refilled glasses for your guests.

Immediately, everyone began to congregate in the middle to where the sofas were, taking a pavlova and having their refill. Your pavlovas were a favourite among your friends. You even had to swat Scott’s hand from taking more than one at a time. 

The chatter turned up again, everyone catching up within the confines of your home. You relaxed beside Sam as he chatted with Vis about football of all things. Vis looked bored, yet was too polite to switch topics.

“So, a little birdie told me that this house is haunted, that true?” you heard Tony as he came to stand next to the sofa, pavlova in hand, “If so, then damn! It really does live up to the Addam’s Family aesthetic it has going on.” 

“Tony!” Pepper hissed from across the room, reprimanding him. She turned to you, “I’m so sorry for him.”

“It’s okay, Pep,” and you were, Tony’s just being, well, Tony. “Where did you hear that though? Even I didn’t know at first.” By now, everyone was paying attention to you two.

“Saw it in a blog when I was looking for navigation, apparently they only managed to live here for two weeks,” he said, taking a bite of the sugary confection. “So it is true? Feeling watched? Things disappearing? Ghostly apparitions? Oooh.” 

You heard Scott whisper yell, “ _So we went willingly inside a haunted house? Are we cursed?_ ” in the background. Hope shushed him.

“None so far, the landlord even told me that he had never experienced anything living here. I’d take those blog posts with a grain of salt if I were you,” you said, sipping your glass. “Besides, I don’t really believe in ghosts. Ever heard of infrasounds, Stark?” 

Tony smirked, “I expected no less from a woman of science.” He finished the rest of his dessert. “Say, how ‘bout we make a bet? If you can live here past 2 weeks, i’ll give you $400.”

“ _Ugh, Tones_ ,” Rhodey grumbled at the back.

“Make it $500 then we’ll have a deal,” you smirked, not backing down.

“$450”

“No, $500.” 

“Ugh, fine! $500.” He eye-rolled, holding out his hand. “Let’s shake it.”

“Deal.”

You both shook hands, sealing the deal in front of a live audience that is your friends. $500. 2 weeks.

“Why do I feel this won’t go well,” Vis sighed, holding onto Wanda. She nodded absently, eyes locked in a different _corner_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? On the fence? Share your thoughts!
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, I get lonely asfdhsa  
> literate-lamb.tumblr.com


	3. Weird Oddities & The Screech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take the cat in, or did _it_ take _you_ in? And what is that awful screech?

**Day 3**

_Tap_. _Tap_. _Tap._ The click of kitten heels resounded as you walked, coffee cup in hand, its heat warming your cold fingers. The temperature was getting chillier as the days passed on. The once lush green foliage now no more, their hues of orange turning darker with time. The drab sky and the autumn wind didn’t make it easier, chilling you as they hung above and passed by. 

Approaching the porch, you saw the white feline lounging on the steps. Its tail gave the occasional flicker, eyes imploring, as if it has been awaiting for your arrival. 

“ _Mmreow._ ”

“Why, hello there!” you cooed, bending at the waist as you looked at the cat. “Have you been waiting for me?”

It gave a low murmur in return, rubbing and butting its head between your legs as a reply, leaving fine hairs on your slacks. Looks like you’ve made a new friend in the neighbourhood. A _fur-riend_ , if you will. 

“Lucky for you, I’ve brought some stuff,” you shook the bag of cat food in your other hand, smirking as you tempted the feline. 

Sniffing the bag, the cat immediately became hyper, running towards the door with its tail swishing in excitement. Frustrated at your lack of movement, it mewled uncontrollably, yelling at you. Snickering, you stepped foot on the porch and set down the bag, fishing for the keys in your pocket. “Okay okay, you’re so demanding. Calm down.”

It zoomed in as soon as you unlocked the door. The fluffball looked like it knew its way around as it never once hesitated, long tail swishing as it went. It might’ve had history with previous tenants if it has been here long enough, including Mr Rogers.

Sensing your lack of presence, it stopped at the end of the hall, looked back and meowed, telling you to hurry up. 

“Okay okay, sheesh, I’m coming!”

Entering the kitchen, you prepared the cat food in a bowl. The feline was almost ravenous, clawing at your slacks like it hasn’t eaten for days. That could be the case for strays, you mulled as you set down the bowl. 

The house fell silent once more. Only the munching and grunting emanating from the small body the occasional interruption. You relaxed, back facing the countertop behind. Grabbing the nearest fruit bowl, you picked a peach, washed, and munched.

Slumping, you stared ahead, the antique mirror on the opposite wall occupied your vision. It was one of many, inhabiting your house in its intricate frame.

From your position, you could see the window of the back door reflected in the mirror, showcasing a small area of the yard. You felt yourself relax as you observed the fluttering of grass, dancing as they’re caressed by the autumn wind.

Sam had left in the morning, his work and apartment calling him, before you could be reunited at the end of the week. You missed him, but you enjoyed your solitude when it came, which wasn’t often. For now, it seemed you had a new companion to keep you company.

Munching on a peach, you divert your attention to the cat, watching as it ate eagerly. Humming, you had an idea.

“How about we call you Peaches?” you threw it out loud, “What do you think?”

The cat continued munching, not a care in the world. Well, you weren’t expecting much reply from a cat anyway.

“Peaches, it is then,” you hummed. Reaching down, you scratched it by the scruff. It had an immaculate coat for a stray, especially for a white cat. You found it surprising. “Let’s get you microchipped and vaccinated tomorrow, hmm?” 

Leaving the feline to its own devices, you headed upstairs, dying for a post-work shower.

The blue bathroom tiles greeted your feet with their coolness. Natural light basked in through the lone window, bouncing on the walls as they illuminated the space. The clawfoot bathtub caught your eyes, its sight calling towards your fatigue body, demanding you take a dip.

Towel in hand, you stepped further into the bathroom and shut the door, shedding your clothes as you went. As you were busy pulling at your socks, something caught your attention. 

The toilet seat was left up. This irritated you, _terribly_. You’ve always reminded Sam to put it down after he was done, and he was getting the hang of it too. Seemed like he needed another reminder. 

You huffed as you shut the lid, unaware of the passing shadow beneath the door.

* * *

**Day 4**

“ _Mrreow mrreow._ ”

“Yes yes, we’ll get back soon,” you replied, eyes on the road. “I need to get a few stuff for dinner.”

Peaches had been whining throughout the entire car ride back and forth. In the morning, she seemed hyper yet nervous being in a moving vehicle for the first time. She wouldn’t stop chittering at everything she saw, pawing at the windows as the scenery flew by. The ride back was far more peaceful as she was confined in a cat carrier bought at the clinic. That didn’t stop her chittering though, Peaches was a talkative cat.

A day at the clinic proved fruitful as you administered Peaches her first vaccine. She whined, but didn’t retaliate, taking it like a champ. A general checkup showed she was fit as a fiddle. Further checking revealed she wasn’t microchipped, proving her a stray of the area. You were more than happy to call her yours. 

Putting the gear into park, you exited the car, leaving a smidge of space on the passenger window for Peaches. 

“I won’t be long,” you reassured her, tapping the window.

The mini market was located among the row of shops in the quaint town, a five minutes drive from the house. It was a cozy family establishment nestled in the corner next to a hardware store, small but sufficient for the tiny population. 

The shift in temperature was apparent when you stepped inside. An elder woman greeted you from behind the counter, her smile warm, clashing with the cold fall weather. Beside her, a teenager sat at the cash register, absent-mindedly flipping through a magazine. You returned the greeting with a smile and took a basket. This would mark your first appearance after the move into the neighbourhood.

Inside, the aisles were stocked but they were devoid of customers other than yourself. It seemed like a slow day. 

Taking your time in the produce aisle, you took what you needed for tonight’s dinner, thinking of a few easy stir-fry recipes at the top of your head. You passed by the pet food area, taking a few snacks for Peaches. She deserved a treat after an exhausting day.

Bringing your basket to the counter, the teen started ringing up your items, face impassive, bored with the mundane task.

“Would you like some plastic bags?” the cashier asked, her voice drawls. 

“Yes, please.”

Eyes downcast, you swayed on the heel of your boot as you waited for your groceries. The rhythmic tapping calmed you. _Tap_ . _Tap_ . _Tap_.

“Are you new here, dear?” a soft voice chimed. 

Looking up, you saw the older lady had approached the front, facing you. She was a short woman, grey hair fixed neatly in a bun, with oval glasses perched on her nose. Her smile never wavered, motherly in a sense.

“Yes, I just moved here a few days ago,” you answered, straightened. “I live on Gardenia Street, in the old white house further down.” 

Your answer shocked the cashier, halting her movement, unbeknownst to the two of you. She immediately composed herself and resumed before anyone could take notice.

“Oh, old Steve Rogers’ place? That’s a lovely house,” the elder beamed, a faraway look on her face. “I remember when he and his wife used to host dinner parties back in the day. Peggy was always a magnificent host, and Steve was equally charming in a silent way. They never had children, those two. It was always just them.”

“When Peggy passed, it hit him hard,” she continued, her eyes turned somber. “Living in a large house by himself, it was probably difficult. I hope he found peace by moving away.”

You didn’t know how to answer, her latter statement left a heavy atmosphere hanging. It was sad to know Mr Rogers’ reason for not living in the house, at the same time it felt you were intruding into your landlord’s personal matters.

Trying to escape the unease, you tried steering the conversation away, awkwardly, “He’s a very attentive landlord, I’m glad to have gotten him as one, honestly. He’s really nice.”

That seemed to do it, for a small smile returned to her face. 

“I’m glad to hear it, dearie,” she said, handing your groceries from the cashier. “Stay safe, and if you hear any rumours, just know that the youngsters here like to pull pranks all the time,” she laughed.

Curious, but not wanting to press, you took your bags and paid. You bid the old lady a farewell and rushed to your car, remembering Peaches was still inside.

“ _Mrrreow_.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m here,” you greeted, turning the ignition. “Sorry it took awhile, bought you some treats to make up for it.”

Before you could reverse out of the parking lot, a series of knocks came on your window. Looking to your left, you saw it was the teen cashier. She gestured for you to roll down your window, her hands frantic. 

“Did I leave something behind?” you asked, rolling down the window a bit.

“No, nothing, it’s all fine. I’m just here to warn you,” she said, peering through the small gap you rolled down, eyes frenzied. “You should get out of that house while you still can.” 

_Ah_ , this must be what the elder woman meant. Another one of those spooky stories.

“My grandma thinks it’s all crap, but trust me, that house ain’t what you think it is,” she finished, her eyes turning into slits.

“No, thank you. I like that house, thank you very much.”

Brows furrowed, she scoffed, “Last Halloween, me and a couple of friends went there as a dare. I swear to God, we saw a man walking through the house in the dark. I’m not making this shit up!”

“I’m sure you did,” you replied tersely. “Now, is that all? I have somewhere to be.”

Moving away from your vehicle, the teen glared at you, eyes hard. You reversed out of the parking space, watching the girl in the rearview mirror get smaller and smaller as you drove away. She never ceased her gaze, staring until your car disappeared. 

Watching you drive away, she whispered beneath her breath, voice carrying into the wind.

“ _Don’t say I didn’t warn you._ ”

—

This afternoon’s interaction left you weirded out. You heeded the older woman’s advice, shutting down any outrageous stories concerning your new home. Especially from kids who trespass other people’s property in the name of dares.

Downing the last bit of tea —courtesy of your landlord— you headed upstairs, getting ready for bed.

Turning in, you shut the bedside lamp off, plunging the room in semi-darkness; the moonlight from the balcony was the only source of luminance.

Forgetting about the day’s events, you closed your eyes, falling into a dreamless slumber.

...

_Screeeech!_

A sudden noise awoke you. Loud and clear, like nails on a chalkboard. Like a high-pitched shriek, before fading away into nothing.

With bleary eyes, you snatched your phone from the bedside table. It read 3:25AM. Too early. 

Too exhausted to comprehend, you fell asleep once more, deafened to the outside world.

* * *

**Day 5**

The blaring of the phone’s alarm woke you up, its buzzing reverberating. Groggy, you sat up, feeling sated yet still sleepy. Either yesterday’s events were really draining, or the tea really did its trick. 

Eyes still heavy, something caught your senses. You sniffed a few times, detecting a scent. Woody, sooty. The scent of a burnt wick perhaps, except it clouded every part of the room. It was familiar. 

Taking in the room, nothing seemed amiss. Nothing seemed burnt, nor faulty. No chewed up wires. No spilled perfumes. Yours sat neatly on the vanity, not a single drop vanished. 

The closet was the same, nothing seemed burnt as you checked. The bedside lamps and sockets were working well, no burnt fuses. You were beginning to think something might’ve happened when you awoke last night. You were starting to get paranoid.

Opening the bedroom door, nothing seemed different in the hall. Only, the scent stopped there, confined to only the bedroom. Going back in, you threw the balcony door open, hoping to air out the scent. Pleased, you left to get ready.

As soon as you left the bathroom, Peaches was in the bedroom, sat by the foot of the bed. Blue eyes clear and imploring, watching as you dressed. You wondered what goes on in her head at times.

“Come on, let’s eat,” you called, closing the balcony doors before leaving the room. Peaches trotted behind, not before giving one last glance towards the bed, or rather, what was _beneath_ it. 

—

A surprise came for you after work in the form of Sam Wilson. A bouquet of white roses and baby breaths in hand, he whooshed into the clinic dramatically with his signature toothy smile. Acting as if he was the hero of a rom-com, confessing to the heroine in front of an audience to demonstrate his undying love. To prove your point, you swore you heard the receptionist sigh.

“Dr Hottie, I presume?”

Amused, you decided to play along. “O Samuel, wherefore art thou Samuel?”

“A surprise for milady,” he proclaimed. “As payment, I require one kiss from thee.” Receiving the bouquet, you sealed the deal with a peck.

Embarrassed by the numerous pair of eyes, you took Sam’s elbow and steered him towards the entrance. This wasn’t his first surprise visit here, but you preferred the affection without the attention.

“Samuel, where is thy chariot?”

“Tony drove me here, I took the bus to work today,” he explained. “He asked if you wanted to back out of the bet, said he’ll understand.”

You grinned, tossing Sam your keys. “Tell him I’m not about being a sore loser.”

You both drove off, with Norah Jones soft falsetto accompanying in the background. The passing scenery lulling you both, soaking in each other’s presence.

As minutes passed, you began to think about yesterday’s events and what they entail. The older woman and her teenage grandchild. The teen whose stare pierced, never wavering. Her tale, which when you think about it, could’ve held some truth. The supernatural seemed like a far reach, but it didn’t mean there weren’t other possible explanations for the truth.

The more you dwelled on it, the more it didn’t make sense. Until you thought about what awoke you last night. It sounded like a high-pitched scream but at the same time it wasn’t. 

Glancing towards Sam, you thought about how to bring it up to him. It could be nothing, and you hoped it was nothing.

“Hey baby,” you started. “Can I ask your opinion on something?”

“What is it?” he hummed, giving you a glimpse.

“Last night I heard something like a high-pitched shriek? It was like ‘eeeeh!’, like a firework before it goes off,” you described, gesturing. “It woke me up, but I don’t think it happened inside, it sounded distant. Do you have any ideas what it might be?”

Giving a low hum, he started tapping the wheel, thinking. “Your house has a speed bump in front, right?”

“Huh-uh,” you confirmed, confused.

“Some old cars when they hit the brakes, they produce this loud screeching sound,” he explained. “Here, let me demonstrate.” 

Approaching a speed bump on the road, Sam slowed down and pressed the brakes. A loud squeal was emitted, short yet piercing. It went by fast as it came.

“Like that, except it could be louder for cars without maintenance.”

You nodded. In your heart you knew it wasn’t the same, but you let it go.

* * *

**Day 6**

“Baby!” Sam hollered from across the hall. “Have you seen my razor?”

Pausing your mascara, you called out, “No, I haven’t! Did you check the cabinets?”

Sam had stayed the night, accompanying you. He held you through the night, limbs tangled in the sheets. He could never keep away for long. Always coming back.

“I did, I swore I left it on the sink last time,” he said, standing by the door with his arms crossed, a towel the only garment protecting his dignity. “Maybe, just maybe… It’s the ghosts! Wooo,” he booed, lips exaggerated in an ‘o’, fingers wiggling in the air. You rolled your eyes at his antics.

“Hurry up, I have to drop you off at the bus stop or you’ll be late,” you grumbled, returning to the task at hand. Sam cackled.

—

Friday nights were always movie nights at your abode. It was a sacred tradition between you both, unless prior engagements were made. 

Sam would come over with take-out and drinks while you prepared the popcorn and blankets. Tonight, you both decided to take it up a notch; a blanket fort in the parlour with rose petals scattered, courtesy of Sam. 

Your boyfriend had brought his speakers, setting them up beside the coffee table the laptop was perched. Both the chesterfield sofas were brought closer, acting as the foundation for your canopy. It was quite the set-up.

“Caramel or salted?” you got up, moving towards the entryway of the dining room.

“Caramel baby,” he replied, making a face. “Who eats salted? Those are nasty.”

Too used to his antics, you moved to the kitchen to heat up the kernels. While waiting, you began hearing faint scratching. You turned to check. It became distinct when you entered the hallway, slowly creeping, ultimately leading you to the basement. 

Feeling a sense of familiarity, you pushed the black door. What greeted you was Peaches in the inky darkness. 

“How did you end up in here again?” you grumbled, exasperated. This was becoming a recurring occurrence. “What do you have in your mouth?”

Trotting up the steps, exiting the basement, Peaches dropped an item by your feet before scurrying away. You heard a hiss, followed by Sam’s screech. Peaches must’ve found him.

You leaned down to check what she brought up. It was Sam’s razor.

—

That night, as you lay next to Sam under the canopy of the fort, a distant rumbling stirred you. Followed by a loud screech. It lasted for a second, but it was enough to arouse you. 

“Sam, did you hear that?” you whispered, shaking your partner.

“What what?” he mumbled, still sleep laden. 

“The screeching sound.”

Sam never opened his eyes, he only snuggled closer. “T’was probably cars. Go to sleep,” he mumbled, dozing off once more.

You didn’t have the energy to wake him again, knowing it was futile. Silencing all your doubts, you closed your eyes and let sleep take you. With the lingering thoughts of how the noise sounded nearer, pushed to the back of your consciousness. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more slowburn. I swear it picks up next chapter!
> 
> anyways, talk to me on tumblr:  
> literate-lamb.tumblr.com


	4. A Forgettable Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A racket in the attic leads to a discovery of old memories. Your dissatisfaction leads you to a forgettable night.
> 
> WARNING: the tags are there for a reason. proceed with caution.

**Day 7**

The pitter patter of rain was a welcomed presence. They added to the serene ambience of the residence; sombre but comforting. While others would bemoan the absence of sunny days, you relished in the cool and comfort it brought. It gave ways to days under duvets and blankets, a book and warm drink in hand. Today, it brought coolness to the sweat as strands of hair clung to the temples. 

Napkin in hand, you wiped the respiration trickling down your chin, the cool air helping it dry off. Scanning the guest room, you were satisfied with the result. Floors mopped, surfaces wiped, sheets aired; the room was finally dust-free, perfect for accommodating guests.

Today marked the first week of your stay in the house. Your first week in the so-called haunted house. And one more week to go before you bag that $500 cheque.  _ Take that, Tony _ .

Sam had left for the day, spending time with his college buddies at a bowling alley. He’d promised to cook you dinner when he came back, you looked forward to it.

The room was silent as you went back to work, stretching the sheets end to end, taut enough that a coin could bounce. And if the coin fell, hitting the floor, you were sure its ring would echo. The silence of the house when alone was deafening, saved for the small shower outside.

Suddenly feeling unsettled by the silence, you took out your phone. Opening your playlist, you played the first song you saw ;  _ Love by Nat King Cole _ . The music blared from the tiny speakers, flooding the room with the harmony of jazz.

You swayed and tapped to the beat of the cymbals, the saxophone aiding your show, all the while managing other meagre chores. You moved, feet light, across the hallway to the linen closet, taking extra sheets.

While fitting the sheets in the other guest room, that’s when your ears picked it. 

_ Tap _ .  _ Tap _ .  _ Tap _ . 

Among the symphony of rain and Nat King Cole’s swing baritone, you heard it; light footsteps, tapping to the rhythm of jazz, above you. The rain and sax almost drowned it out, but you could discern it between the others. 

You stopped your hands and listened on. The creaking was light but they were there, following a rhythm of sorts. It took you seconds to realize the steps were not random. They were following the rhythm of the music. 

They were  _ dancing _ .

You let the music continue playing before it ended and changed to another track:  _ Iron Maiden’s The Trooper _ .

The creaks stopped abruptly when Bruce Dickinson’s shout came through. Then, a sudden crash boomed your eardrums. Loud and heavy, like hardbound books falling off a shelf. It stilled for a moment before frantic meowing began.

“Peaches?”

The meows continued, high-pitched and desperate. You heard scuffling on the ceiling, probably the cat’s paws scratching the surface, desperate for help.

When the meowing went on for longer, you hurriedly left the room all the while huffing about the mischievous cat that you decided to keep. Pulling the built-in ladder at the end of the hall from above, you began climbing up. Peaches’ cries still echoed. 

Your footsteps caused dust particles to float, making you hack. Taking the space in, you noticed every single item was covered in white sheets, protecting them beneath. Some were tall, some broad, crowding the attic in a ghostly maze. A lone circular window laid ahead, opened, flooding the supposed dark space in natural light. A breeze from outside came through, chilling you.

It was serene, yet a little unsettling. If one didn’t know better, they would’ve mistaken the standing figures to be ghosts, instead that of a lamp. Standing still in a few corners, unmoving. The fluttering of their sheets by a draft the occasional movement.

The feline’s constant whining reached you, pulling you out. You took slow deliberate steps, stumbling and navigating through the sea of cloaked figures. Paying attention to the pleading mewls, you tracked down Peaches to a corner, adjacent to the source of light.

“Were you prancing around up here? How did you even get up here?!” you scolded. Peaches whines only became louder.

Going over to the window, you shut it, stopping the cold air from chilling further. Strange, has it always been opened? 

You stepped towards Peaches and assessed her. 

She was covered in soot, immaculate white coat now stained grey. The cat, for some reason, got her tail stuck under something heavy; a large leather bound book, covered in an inch of dust. You picked up the offending item, freeing Peaches from her confinement.

“There you go, you stupid cat,” you huffed. She mewled in reply, head butting your leg, showing gratitude. “Yeah, next time pay rent.”

She slinked between your legs before dashing off down the stairs, her tail between her legs. You could only sigh at her mischief. 

Gazing down, you inspected the heavy book in your hands. The word “Memories” was embossed on the cover in gold lettering. Some of the skin had been chipped off, the leather worn with age. Flipping to the first page, you realized it was actually a photo album.

A black and white portrait of a woman greeted you, her tight-lipped smile stern yet warm. She was a classic beauty, with shoulder length curls and immaculate brows. She looked every bit of the word professional.

_ Margaret Carter-Rogers, 1921-2016 _

On the next page, a wedding photo surprised you. In the photo, the woman —Margaret— was clad in virginal white. She was holding the arm of a light-colour haired man, whom you recognized to be  _ Mr Rogers _ . He was equally dashing.

_ Carter-Rogers’ Wedding, June 1946 _

The following pages showed bits and pieces of their lives. Snapshots of the couple dancing;  _ Five Year Anniversary, 1951 _ . Photos at parties;  _ Sharon’s First Birthday, 1977 _ . And pictures with friends;  _ Peggy’s Farewell Party, 1991 _ .

You observed as the couple became progressively older with each flip of a new page. Hair became greyer and thinner. Skin became taut and wrinkly.

The photos of the couple stopped when you’ve reached a new section. 

_ James Buchanan Barnes, 1917 - _

The page showed a small photograph of a brunette donning what seemed to be a military cap. Sharp cheekbones and a cleft chin were his distinguishing features, but what caught your attention were his  _ eyes _ . Light-coloured in the sepia hues, most probably a light blue. They crinkled with his smile, adding more to the charm.

To say he was handsome was an understatement, he was most probably a heartthrob during his prime, you imagined.

Flipping through each page, you uncovered more of the past. Each photo consisted of both Mr Rogers —a skinnier younger version of him— with this mysterious man.  _ James _ , as you’ve learned to memorize.

There were photos from their youth;  _ Coney Island, 1937.  _ Stills in their uniforms;  _ Leaving for Europe, 1943 _ . Images from their military days;  _ Howling Commandos, 1945 _ . And they ended there.

You admired each one of them, curious about Mr Rogers’ friend. They seemed to be really close if the amount of photographs were of any indicator. 

Where was he now? Were they still friends?

What piqued your interest further was the absence of a death date on the first page, beneath his photo. Was he still alive? If so, that would make him over a hundred. Where were the rest of the photos? The amount seemed considerably smaller compared to Margaret’s. Did something happen?

Before you could spiral further, you chose to close the album. That was enough prying for one day. 

—

“Hmmph harder!”

Moans mixed with the slapping of skin against skin echoed in the bedroom. You were on all fours, clutching the comforter for dear life as Sam railed you from behind repeatedly. Your toes curled in time with the delicious sting from his girth, wanting more and more. The roughness of his palms kneaded your behind, slapping your globes occasionally. It filled him with satisfaction when they bounced to his thrusts.

The post-dinner activity commences. 

“Ah... yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“You nearly there, baby?”

“Need more, Sammie,” you whined, head clouded with lust.

It started with a nice little dinner. Just the two of you. Before Sam brought out the whipped cream for desserts. He couldn’t resist.

Without warning, he flipped you over. You laid on your back, watching Sam as he hovered above. Giving a small peck to your lips, he re-entered, pistoning as he picked up where he left. You locked your ankles behind his back as you clung to him, the speed jostling you. 

You could feel it. You could feel how close he was to climax. The sloppy thrusts. The harsh grip. The unbridled groans. He was  _ close _ . But you weren’t.

Pumping a few more times, Sam stilled, lost in the pleasure of his release. Riding the wave, he looked at you.

“Did you cum, baby?”

“Nu-huh,” you admitted, pushing your hips. It had been pleasurable, but you were far from reaching your high. You wiggled your hips, enticing Sam and making him groan.

Starting again, Sam changed condoms and thrusted into you; the goal of sending you into an orgasm in mind. He slowly rocked into you, penetrating with shallow thrusts before picking up momentum, going deeper. The speed and angle was adequate, but you felt something was amiss. 

Grabbing his arms, you thought of an act that would surely send you over the edge.

“Choke me, baby.”

You placed his palm on the base of your throat, closing the fingers on the sides of your neck. You gripped his hand, squeezing it to initiate the action. Immediately, you felt your airways cut off. The dizziness sent you to new sensations. A different kind of high that you welcomed.

You felt pleasure starting to build up within you. His deep thrusts paired with the asphyxiation drove you closer. Starting to tither over the edge, closer and closer. You were  _ so close _ . Until it suddenly stopped.

You swallowed large gulps as oxygen invaded your lungs. The high that you were experiencing came crashing down, and not in the way you expected. You were robbed of it too early. Too soon.

Sam’s hands were no longer on your neck. You looked up at him, seeing unease and guilt and another emotion.  _ Put off _ .

“I’m sorry, baby,” he apologized. “I’m just uncomfortable by it. What if I made a mistake?”

He apologized a few more times, but you admonished him, reassuring that it was okay. He tried to get you off one more time, reaching his second climax for the night. You never reached yours.

* * *

**Day 8**

Sunday came around with a ball of sunshine to make up for Saturday. You spent the afternoon alone, again, serving lunch for one. The only form of company the cat you adopted, when it was not out causing mischief. It seemed your choice of dwelling has caused you further isolation than you realized.

You’ve always cherished being by your lonesome. But today, it felt particularly lonely. 

The press of his lips on your forehead still lingered in your mind. The hug that he left with fell short of the usual warmth. Sam had been gone since breakfast, citing a friend needed his help. You didn’t ask further, giving him his space.

After last night, you felt it. His apprehension rolling off in waves. You didn’t blame him. While chasing for pleasure, you neglected the comfort of your partner. You neglected to discuss any boundaries that he had erected. 

You’ll make up for it when he gets back. But before that, you had tea and cakes with Wanda to catch. 

—

“I think it put him off,” you sighed. “Just this morning, he was doing his usual thing. He kissed me before he left, but it felt… different. Or maybe I’m looking too much into it and it’s actually nothing.”

_ The Sleeping Cat  _ was crowded in the late afternoon. Its cozy interior provided shelter for those seeking warmth from the chilling autumn wind. The aroma of cakes and coffee was a welcomed presence, filling you with familiarity. Opposite of you sat Wanda, listening to your woes as she lazily stirred her tea.

“I feel bad, I told him to do it without discussing it with him first. He must be disgusted, or weirded out, I don’t know,” you gazed down, picking the strawberry on your cake. It was easy to talk to Wanda, she had always been a great listener, and a trusted friend. If anyone was an expert on relationships, it would be Wanda; Vis and her’s eighth anniversary a few months shy.

“Then, why not talk to him?” she said, looking quite amused yet still serious. “From what I gather, he only apologized. He didn’t say he was disgusted or anything. Like you said, it might actually be nothing.”

“Vis and I used to have misunderstandings a lot in the early years, given how clueless he always is,” she rolled her eyes. “But we learned that what we needed was to communicate. We’re not mind-readers, witch or not.”

You hummed, acknowledging the truth in her words. You’ve known Sam for a long time, friends before feelings came into the equation. You knew he would be open to communication; he did it for a living at the VA. It could end up actually being nothing but a misunderstanding from your part. It was silly. You’ll never know and keep on guessing unless you ask.

“Maybe you’re right,” you grabbed the tea at hand. “I was already thinking of making up to him, but maybe what we need —what I need— is just a conversation. Like a heart-to-heart.”

The tea soothed you, it’s blend of passionfruit and orange zest proved a tangy balm for your flurry of emotions. This company, and this atmosphere was a part of what you needed. On one hand, you shot Sam a text, asking if he’d be back for dinner.

“So, how’s the house? Feel like leaving yet?” Wanda asked, eyebrows raised.

You looked up from your phone, chuckling, “It’s been great, actually. Tony asked Sam if I wanted to bail out the other day, I told him to suck it.” Wanda laughed, amused, before her expression schooled.

“Have you experienced anything? Like, anything... weird?”

You contemplated her words, chalking it up to the usual suspicion. Your earlier intentions were to humour her, but the more you stewed, the more you were reminded of the past few days. 

“Well, there has been this ‘screeching’ noise?” you said, unsure. “It happened at night, but not every night. Sam said it was the brakes of old cars passing by, but honestly, it could also be my cat.” You didn’t want it to be a cause for worry, you tried to deflect the topic as best as you could.

“I adopted a stray in the area,” you explained. “Her name’s Peaches and she’s a menace. I’ve found her down in the basement twice and yesterday, she was in the attic of all places!” you huffed, eye-rolling. “But yeah, nothing really exciting besides my stupid cat.”

Wanda chuckled. A few beats passed before she continued, “But if anything happens, promise me you’d let me know?”

Her eyes were unwavering, the greens intense. Her amusement had turned sombre. You knew Wanda saw the world differently than you did. Believed in it differently than you did. The least you could do was ease her mind.

“I promise you’ll be the first person I’ll call, Wands.”

—

It was nearing 12am and Sam still wasn’t back. Did he go back to his own place? You’d understand if he did, you had work yourself. But he’d told you if he were.

You furiously tapped the end call button, irritated at the repeated tone of the voice message. His last text read at 7pm, said he was meeting with Tony and Rhodey for a while and he wouldn’t be back for dinner. That was 5 hours ago.

You couldn’t help but worry a bit. Was this about last night? Was he upset? Was he mad at you? Was he avoiding you? 

Putting the kettle on the stove, you turned on the burner. Remembering Wanda’s words, you thought of ways to calm your speeding mind. Some tea could help. After all, chamomile was considered a mild tranquilizer.

While waiting for the water to boil, you calmed yourself and thought rationally. Sam Wilson was a grown man. He didn’t need to be checked on constantly, didn’t need to be coddled, and he was deserving of his own personal space. You held yourself back from texting Tony and Rhodey, reminding yourself to respect Sam’s time and space. He will come back. He always does. 

The whistle of the kettle broke your train of thought. Taking a tea bag from Mr Rogers’ box of a housewarming gift, you let it steep before bringing a cup upstairs. 

The pull of slumber was immediate as soon as you finished; teacup barely making it to the saucer.

—

_ Creek! _

You stirred from slumber, head groggy. The bed dipped and shook lightly, a weight rocked you slowly. Your eyelids felt heavy, unable to open, as if they were glued shut. Your limbs felt like lead; dense, laying useless by your side.

_ Creek!  _

With the absence of sight, your sense of hearing heightened. After a few beats, you soon realized what was creaking. It came from the frame of the bed, its wood rickety from age. 

Cold air kissed your lower regions, making you shiver. You didn’t remember sleeping without the covers. Your nightshirt the only article of clothing, riding up until your stomach.

_ Creek! Creek! _

Soon, a warmth enveloped you. A heavy weight. A  _ body _ . Covering your form in their heat. They were running hot. 

Calloused and roughened, two large hands descended on you, running your sides. Their fingertips and palms ghosted, barely touching, before stopping on your thighs. The sensation left you in a shiver, leaving a sense of yearning.

“S… S-Sam?” you croaked out, throat parched.

Blind and in a haze, you tried to move your arms again, wanting to reciprocate the touch. Wanting to  _ feel _ him. Only your fingers twitched, the effort proved exhaustive.

_ Creek! Creek!  _

“Ah…”

A finger fiddled with your nub. He played with your clit, swirling with the pad of his fingers before gliding along your lower lips, prodding and teasing. He parted your legs, granting easier access as he toyed with your slit. Slick began to pool, he gathered and smeared it all over your cunt, giving your clit the occasional flick.

You felt cold and wet when he retracted, your juices clinging to your skin. Without warning, you felt the tip of his cock probed you, snuggling into your tight channel, demanding entrance. His thick girth stretched you, making you feel full. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he began rocking, plunging into you bit by bit. 

You felt odd. You swore one of his hands felt colder than usual. You shivered.

_ Creek! Creek! Creek! _

"F-fuck!"

The bedframe squealed louder and louder as he picked up speed, fucking you without a rhythm. You felt empty when he pulled out and full when he rammed in. He jostled you, hitting all the spots that made you scream, lost to the euphoria. You felt the occasional tap to the cervix, his bulbous head kissing it repeatedly. 

And while all this was happening, you remained locked, limbs laying heavy and unmoving.

_ Creek! Creek! Creek! _

You loved the feeling of him inside you. You took him in like a champ, body pliant and receiving everything that came your way. The sensations made you almost forget your state of inebriation. 

With one hand, he pulled your nightshirt above your chest, freeing your breasts for him to see. The cold air hardened your nubs slightly. It wasn’t long before you felt a warm tongue descend on your tit, swirling and suckling as if to fulfill a hunger. 

He gave them both equal amounts of attention and care, alternating between the two. He stopped when he felt the treatment was adequate, leaving your nipples sore and wet in saliva.

_ Creek! Creek! Creek! _

Fighting the heaviness, you slowly tried unfolding your eyelids. It proved exhaustive. You managed a tiny slit, shutting when it felt too much.

Your field was blurry and dark, heightening your hearing as the bed continued to creak. Sam’s broad figure hovered above, plunged in darkness. You couldn’t make out any features, just the shadow of his movements, thrusting into you.

_ Creek! Creek! Creek! Creek! _

You felt a hand on your neck. Slowly, he began enclosing your throat, cutting your airways like the night before. Except this time, he didn’t stop squeezing.

The deep penetration of his cock combined with the exhilaration of breath play sent you to new heights. A new feeling; dizziness, euphoria, pleasure all rolled in one. The lightheadedness pushed you forward, nearing the edge. You felt it in your core.

_ Creek! Creek! Creek! Creek! _

His pubis kept rubbing on your swollen clit, adding to the amounting high. His movements were getting erratic. He was getting closer, and so were you.

He released your throat, letting a rush of oxygen fill you. You were sent to an all new high. This was it, another type of rush. The head-spinning exhilaration you’ve been waiting for.

“S-Sam!” with a loud rasp, you came undone, quivering beneath him. He followed suit, jacking his hips frantically before stilling. His loud groan reverberated, almost animalistic in the night.

Tired out, your eyelids weighed down again, never getting the chance to peek at him. You drifted off, sleep pulling you under before you could hear his low mumble.

_ “Your fella could never do that, could he?” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, how do writers manage to edit 10k of writing when I struggled with this? sdfdsfd I had to cut the original chapter in half because I didn't want to leave people hanging and waiting any longer. I hope you like this chapter! Next up: a ghost? a home intruder?
> 
> talk to me on tumblr: literate-lamb @ tumblr


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